Captive Rose by Miriam Minger Page A

trellised roof terrace. She was still alone. Her two odalisques
had not yet returned from the harem kitchen with the light supper of yogurt,
olives, and fruit she had requested.
    Slowly she drew her knees up and squeezed her slender
thighs together, tightly at first, then rhythmically, eliciting a secret
yearning deep inside her that made her moan and tremble.
    Leila had been educated in many lovemaking techniques
so that one day she might please her husband, but she had also been taught to
please herself. When she married Jamal she would be sharing his attentions with
his first wife and his many concubines; that, too, was simply the way of
things. There would be times when he would not be able to respond to her needs,
when she must look to her own fulfillment.
    Her small hand crept between the embroidered folds of
her robe and she touched her breast, finding the nipple warm and rigid. She ran
her palm over the sensitive nub and back again, over and back, but oh so
lightly, imagining what Jamal's caress would be like. She massaged her other
breast, sighing with pleasure.
    She could not have been more startled when the imagined
caress suddenly grew rough and demanding in her mind. The huge hands she
pictured stroking her body were not smooth like a physician's but callused and
powerful. A warrior's hands. Blazing blue eyes swept over her, devouring her in
a glance, and she could feel rock-hard muscles pressing relentlessly against
her flesh. She inhaled sharply as the exquisite pressure between her thighs
burned ever brighter, ever hotter . . .
    A keening moan broke from her throat, and she arched
upon the divan as intense pleasure engulfed her, agonizingly sweet. She held
herself there, scarcely breathing, four fingers pressed hard against the moist,
aching cleft of her womanhood until her climax subsided. Exhaling in a rush,
she sank onto the cushions and lay there, stunned, shocked, and bewildered.
    How could she have thought such a thing? It was
immoral, indecent. A sin! To imagine a man other than her betrothed touching
her body, caressing her . . . That barbarian, no less!
    The tranquility of the evening had been spoiled. She
rose in agitation, her silky hair swirling around her. As she angrily drew her
robe together and tied the sash, she heard light footsteps behind her.
    "I'm not in the mood for any supper," she
said irritably, thinking her odalisques had returned with her meal. "Take
it back."
    "Indeed. And such a lovely supper it is, too."
    Leila spun, her eyes widening at the sight of her
mother. Swathed in peach silk from her gossamer veil to her tiny, slippered feet, Eve was holding a brass tray laden with
food, a silver goblet and pitcher, and a delicate oil lantern which cast a soft
golden glow upon her exquisitely beautiful face.
    It never ceased to amaze Leila how youthful her mother
appeared. Though Eve was forty-three years old, the two of them could easily
pass as sisters. Leila was slightly taller, but other than that their lissome
figures could have been shaped from the same mold.
    " Nittia and Ayhan told me I would find you here, my daughter. I
dismissed them for the evening. I hope that does not displease you . . .
further."
    "Of course not," Leila said, rushing forward.
"Let me help you, Mother."
    She took the tray and set it on the low table beside
the divan. The aroma of lamb and spinach-filled pastries reached her nostrils,
stirring her appetite, and her stomach grumbled noisily. It was far more
substantial fare than she had expected, and it looked very tempting.
    "It seems your stomach is not in agreement with
your heated words," Eve said mildly, seating herself on the divan. "I
would swear such a rumbling protest proves you have not eaten since this
morning."
    Leila sat down beside her mother, chagrined because Eve
had heard her use such a petulant tone. She waited silently for the reprimand she
knew was coming.
    "Harshness does not suit you, Leila. ' Tis not your normal manner with
your slave